Caliban Trashing Ariel

In the Nocturnal crews
of gaping Nightjars,
drugged and split,
there are black Saints
of learning confusion,
here for themselves
in permanent ice
or slow, glass liquid,
hungry for experience,
trashing the civilized ancient
with technology.

There is Victoria,
a refugee of Blues and Jazz
with coloured hair.
Victoria falls to Earth
unreasoned,
understanding all
until I break her arm
twisting her into fragments.
And the bone bleeds white
those naked arms;
white in the ice,
white in the city casualty
(The poor at the A & E).

And her arms match her hair
in the ambulance impaled
within the winter trees,
alert but dead.

Russian in fog
turns rebel
in the coloured gaze
to break my sentences,
stealing the armaments
away for transformation.

Falling with the Widow-Maker
at my back,
contempt returns
from Soviets.

As you can see, I found "Caliban Trashing Ariel" It is so long since I wrote it that I am not sure what a lot of it actually means. I'm not even sure who is Ariel and who is Caliban. Anyway, the effort of location and OCR is enough for this evening so more later.